Spider Bones: Revisited
by bebeschtroumph
Summary: A retelling of the book, from Andrew Ryan's point of view.
1. Chapter 1

So, I don't know if anyone wants to read this, but I'm having fun with it. This is Spider Bones, the most recent Brennan book, told from the point of view of Andrew Ryan. I've got a fair bit written, let me know if you want to see more.

* * *

I really, really wanted a cigarette. Sadly, I'd agreed with Lily that bad habits could be broken and that I could kick my much more paltry nicotine addiction since she was kicking heroin. A wonderful, supportive idea. In principle. It hadn't been so hard in winter, not going out into the bitter cold and huddling in any alcove to avoid driving snow while furiously sucking in each smoke filled breath. Now, however, spring had hit Quebec and I didn't get to take those wonderful five minute retreats from the office to bask in the sun and enjoy new life in the air.

Today, however, thanks to the guy rotting in the plastic sack, I was out of the office with no need for my little cancer sticks. Of course, for now, I was stuck in a squad car belonging to the local SQ guy, André Bandau, talking to the guy who had his morning ruined by landing a body rather than whatever prize fish he was after. I looked from my notebook to the man sat in the passenger seat. "So, M Gripper, you noticed the canoe at around eleven?"

The man nodded. "Tabernouche. I got here around ten. I'd noticed the bike when I parked up, so I figured someone else was out on the water, you know?" I nodded. "Anyway, it was about eleven, I guess. My wife was being a pain in my ass about me getting out of the house this morning, so I got out of the house later than I wanted. I had just started fishing, had been floating around for a bit when I saw the boat. But yeah, the empty canoe was a big worry. What with seeing the bike, then seeing an empty canoe, I figured I should check it out. So, I made my way over, and as soon as I got near, my engine caught something."

I made a few notes and listened to him continue, just letting him fill the silence as he liked. "I was close enough that I could see the canoe was empty, and I figured I'd caught the anchor line. So, I paddled in a bit, hoping it would shake loose, but it didn't, and I could see the canoe wasn't moving and the anchor line was in the same spot. Then when I started trying to get my engine sorted out, the guy was basically staring up at my through the freaking plastic." His gestures were getting a bit frantic.

"He was floating head up?" I asked for clarification.

"Yeah. I guess it was around eight feet deep where he was, then when I paddled in, he just bobbed to the surface. I had my phone, so I called the cops, then dragged him out. He had a rock tied to his ankle, the one with the boot on it, and the rest of him was all wrapped up in the plastic like that. Once I had him on dry land, I figured there was no point just sitting there just waiting, so I got my engine working and went back out and towed in the canoe." I nodded, making quick notes as he went.

"Are you here fishing often, M Gripper?"

The man nodded. "I work at the wildlife park. I do maintenance, and I work weekends, so my days off are Tuesday and Thursday. I come here a lot, when the weather's good, and I was here Tuesday. I know there was no canoe or bike here then. I would have noticed, for sure."

I nodded and flipped my notebook shut. I certainly doubted he'd had anything to do with the body turning up, but we'd see. For now, I had enough information. "You've been very helpful. If you could remain here for the moment, I need to speak with my colleagues. We might need some more information from you, so don't leave yet, but feel free to sit in your truck." I gave him a quick nod and we both left the squad car. He certainly wasn't nervous, seemingly just happy someone was dealing with this mess, making me further doubt he was anything other than a guy who'd had his fishing ruined. I took a moment to enjoy the sunshine before walking over to the small crowd of techs gathered near the body. I nodded to Gilles Pomerleau, one of the autopsy techs from Brennan's lab, and her new assistant, Roch Lauzon. After the debacle with the previous assistant to the good doctor, the background check this guy had gone through would have impressed the CIA. I was very, very thorough. He was a decent guy, well liked by his previous colleagues. He hadn't had as much as a parking ticket in the last five years.

Both men were obviously waiting for Tempe to release the body to them for transport. Since she was talking to the local SQ agent, I made my way over to them. I nodded to Bandeau, but directed my questions to Tempe, since she would be the one with any new information. "What do you think?"

"Guy's dead."

I gave her a look, but didn't roll my eyes. It took effort. "Guy?"

"Based solely on size."

I nodded, didn't write anything down. They'd learn more back in the lab, when whoever pulled the autopsy got stuck in. "How long?"

She did a little one shoulder shrug. "Tough to say. Given this week's warm temperatures, and the shrink-wrap, I'd guess a day or two. There's some decomp, but not much." The look she shot the agent was pure venom. Someone was on Tempe's naughty list. "That'll change now that the bugs have been issued a gate pass." I resisted the urge to tell the kid to run for the hills. Tempe, of course, told me exactly what had completely pissed her off. "Agent Bandau decided to go right ahead and open up the plastic, inviting every bug in the vicinity to help speed things along. He decided, all by himself, that it was a completely wonderful idea to slice right in so he could take photos for prints with his _new camera_. Don't worry, though. He assured me he wore _gloves_." Every word dripped with icy sarcasm, and the kid had turned an amusing shade of pink. I wondered if her mother had ever considered the irony of naming her temperance, something no one ever accused her of having an abundance of.

My eyes swung from the anthropologist to the young agent. "What kind of rookie move was that?" We had to know better than to mess with the body before the lab guys went over it, even in a seemingly minor way. "That's no way to make it up the chain, son." The kid's blush went from pink to lobster. I looked back to Brennan, who seemed happier now that I'd told the kid off. "Twenty-four to forty-eight hours tracks with the wit's account. Gripper says he comes out here on his days off, usually Tuesdays and Thursdays. Swears day before yesterday the pond was canoe and corpse free."

"Algae patterning suggests the body was floating with the head just at or below the waterline," she added.

I nodded. "According to Gripper, the body was hanging head up in the water, with the booted foot attached to a rock lying on the bottom. He guesses the pond's about eight feet deep where he found the guy."

"Where was the canoe?"

"Beside the vic. Gripper says that's how the rope got tangled in his outboard." I turned to Bandau. "Check for feedback on those prints."

"Yes, sir." We watched him jog toward his cruiser. The kid was dedicated, I'd give him that. Hopefully he'd keep the energy and lose the idiocy. I smiled at Tempe. "Probably DVR's cop shows."

She scowled at the agent's back. "Not the right ones."

I changed the subject, looking at the body wrapped in plastic. "What do you think?"

"Weird one," she said.

That, I had figured out on my own. "Suicide? Accident? Murder?" She spread her hands out in front of her, obviously not yet having a clue. I grinned at her. "That's why I bring you along." At least she was nice to look at, even when she didn't have anything to add. A hell of a lot nicer to look at than LaManche, for instance.

"The vic probably kept the canoe at the pond and drove the moped back and forth."

Well, I doubt he'd been carrying the thing on his back. "Back and forth from where?"

"Beats me."

"Yep. Can't do without you." It wouldn't be half as fun, anyway.

We listened to the birds in silence for a few minutes, until Bandau came running back. The kid was way too enthusiastic. "Got him. Cold hit in the States. Thirteen-point match."

My eyebrows reached for the stratosphere. That was seriously lucky.

"John Charles Lowery. Date of birth March twenty-first, nineteen fifty."

"Not bad, Bandau." She didn't even sound begrudging when she said it.

"There's one problem." The kid frowned. "John Charles Lowery died in nineteen sixty-eight." That sounded like a pretty fucking big problem to me.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** There's a bit of French in here for fun. I'm bilingual, but my writing in French isn't great, so I apologize for any mistakes. I was too lazy to check it! Understanding it really isn't important, so don't worry. I just wanted to make it clear the conversation was in French rather than English, and figured I speak both so I may as well do it that way.

* * *

For a while, we drove in silence before I finally broke it. "How's Lowery a floater today if he clocked out four decades back?" We were heading north back to Montreal, the sinking sun occasionally catching my eye as I drove. It was in an awkward position for the sun visor. I knew she didn't have an answer to that question any more than I did, but the situation was so weird, you had to ask. "Maybe the hit was a mistake." That was the only possibility I could think of, anyway.

"Thirteen-point match?" She practically vibrated with doubt.

"Remember that lawyer in Oregon?" He'd been linked to the Madrid bombings based on prints, and they'd turned out to be a mistake.

"That was a fluke," she told me, primly. Suddenly, she switched topics. "You think printing the body on-site will cause blowback?"

I snorted. "On the good agent, yeah." It would wind up in his file, for sure, and he might get an official reprimand. It shouldn't, however, affect my case. " A bonehead move, but probably little harm done."

"He meant well."

Now she was defending the guy she was all too pleased to ream earlier? _Tabernac_.

I just shook my head and we lapsed again into silence.

Eventually, I had to ask where I was dropping her. It was late enough that she probably wasn't planning on going back to her lab in the SQ building, but if I just assumed she'd get all irritated and accuse me of trying to coddle her or some ridiculous thing. Just asking was safer. "You going home?"

She nodded, just staring out her window.

Once we passed over île-des-Soeurs, the traffic got ridiculous. I hate traffic, with a burning passion, and my patience was quickly evaporating. I kept catching Tempe glancing at me as I drove, could hear the almost sub-vocal 'tsks' when she thought I was hitting the breaks too hard. I ignored her. If she didn't like my driving, she should have hitched a ride in the coroner's van.

She checked her watch, which irritated me. What, she couldn't stand to be in a car with me any longer? Did she have some pressing engagement she was going to be late for? Normally, I would have pressed for information, or at the very least, tried to get her to have dinner with me, but tonight I couldn't. I was going to spend a very enjoyable evening trying to get my daughter and her mother to speak to each other like rational adults without killing one another. I was going to need to leave my gun at home.

The whole situation was ridiculous. Lily blamed her mother for the fact that she and I had split, blamed her mother for her own heroin addiction, blamed her mother for their move to Montreal, blamed her mother for the sky being blue. Lutetia had a hard time putting up with it, and I couldn't really blame her. It was hard to put up with.

Splitting with Lutetia had been a good decision, even if Lily hadn't liked it much. We'd barely worked as an occasional fling, let alone as romantic cohabitants. Of course, I'd thrown away the best relationship I'd had in recent years to find that out.

I missed Tempe, missed having her in my life, my personal life. Of course, now she didn't trust me. Professionally, sure, she'd follow wherever I led. Personally? If I tried to do so much as hug her, she distanced herself. It irritated the hell out of me, but I was wearing her down. I'd been sure I had her, when she was finally letting me take care of her as she recovered from her stint freezing to death in the Montreal sewers. Just thinking about her, her icy skin as I pulled helped carry her out of there, looking so tiny in her hospital bed, holding her next to the fire in her condo, made me want to punch someone, preferably her asshole assistant who was currently rotting in prison.

I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, heard her quiet muttering as she cracked a window. I ignored her, infuriating woman that she was. I'd wear her down eventually. It had taken the better part of a decade the first time around.

At least she and Pete would be finally be divorced the next time I convinced her to date me. I still felt ridiculously jealous whenever I thought of her ex. I didn't like the guy, he got under my skin. Seeing them together last year, in Charlotte, had driven me mad. I hated feeling like that. I hated that she could elicit such a response in me.

I glanced in her direction as she fidgeted. God, she was hot. I wanted to reach out and brush a stray lock of her blonde-brown hair from her cheek, cup her face in my palm, but suppressed it. Her bright green eyes met mine, skipped away. I thought briefly about the last time we'd slept together. Had it been a year already? Christ. I remembered my hands slipping along her hips, me sliding inside of her, as if it were yesterday. I remembered the guilt, returning to Lutetia that night, lying about where I'd been. I sighed, slowly advancing through the traffic.

My phone rang and I reached for it. _Sunny days…_ Maybe, if I could will them into being.

"Ryan," I announced, mentally switching to French.

"Bonjour, c'est Agent Bandau. J'ai eu une reponse du CID aux Etats Unis." I yessed him. "John Lowery était tué pendant la guerre du Vietnam. Une victime du combat."

"Ils sont sure que les resultats dactyloscopic sont correct?"

"Sans doutes." I threw out a 'bien' "Ils veulent qu'on les contacter quand nous savions des détails plus specifique." Another 'yes' from me. "Il y a une agence qui s'appelle JPAC, qui identifier les manquents de guerre. Ils veulent etre l'agence principal sur cette cause." I listened for a bit longer, as he went through various issues of which department felt like claiming the hassle of figuring out who was buried in John Lowery's grave. I issued a yes where appropriate. Finally I said good bye and clicked off.

I switched back to English. "Bandau sent a query south. Turns out our boy died in combat in Vietnam."

Her eyebrow had gone up."Are you using the Sesame Street theme as your ringtone?"

"Keeping the clouds away," I sang out.

"Got some Big Bird sheets on your bed?"

"Bien sûr, madame." I made sure she was looking at me, then gave her an exaggerated wink. "Want to come check them out?"

She, typically, changed the subject. "Lowery? Vietnam?"

I humored her. "Ever hear of an outfit called JPAC?"

"Sure. I used to work with them. The Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command. Used to be called CILHI until two thousand three."

Christ. I hated dealing with the Americans sometimes. Plus, they always bitched about how complicated _our_ system was. "Hallelujah. Alphabet soup."

"Now I've said my ABC's," she sang.

"Let's not push the metaphor," I said with a smile. When we got a good cycle of banter going, who knew when it would end.

Of course, she started explaining. "Central Identification Laboratory Hawaii. JPAC resulted from the merger of CILHI and the Joint Task Force–Full Accounting Commission. JPAC's lab portion is now referred to as the CIL. It's the largest forensic anthropology laboratory in the world."

Not surprising, then, that she was familiar with it. "Lowery didn't come through JPAC, but that's where his case has been bounced. What's your connection with the place?"

"Every positive JPAC ID has to be approved by a zillion reviewers, some of whom are civilian and external to the CIL. I served in that capacity for many years."

Oh yeah. When she wasn't disappearing to Charlotte, she was in the Aloha state. "Right. I forgot about those midwinter trips to Hawaii."

"Travel was required twice yearly for lab oversight."

Yeah, of course, 'oversight'. "And a little surfing, my coconut princess?"

"I don't surf."

I grinned. "How about I hang ten over to your place and we—"

"I rarely had time to set foot on a beach."

"Uh-huh." She couldn't resist the beach. Even I knew that.

"When was Lowery ID'ed?" I asked.

"Bandau didn't say." He'd been too focused on telling me that we were keeping control over the current body, even if they were insisting on taking point on the old id. He seemed to think this would bother me, for reasons I couldn't fathom. Maybe Brennan was right and he was DVRing the wrong cop shows.

"If it was back in the sixties, things were totally different."

I turned off rue Sainte-Catherine, drove half a block, and slid to the curb in front of her building. Her hand hesitated on the door handle. I fished for something to say. "You plan to do plastic man first thing tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Since there's a five-hour time difference, I'll phone the CIL tonight, see what I can learn about Lowery."

She hopped out, and my eyes followed her until she made it inside before finally pulling away. It took me another fifteen minutes to get to Lutetia's, then a further five to find a parking place. I didn't understand Tempe's constant grumbling about parking in this town. Obviously, she just didn't spend enough time here. Frowning, I pushed her out of my mind.

Lutetia rolled brown eyes at me as soon as she opened the door. "You have no idea what I'm putting up with here. You talk to her. I'm going to pick up a pizza." Without a further word, she scooped up her purse and stormed out, leaving me slightly puzzled as I entered the apartment.

Lily was on the couch, her legs pulled tight against her chest. "This whole place blows. I hate it here, and I hate living with _her_."

I sighed. It was going to be another one of those nights. "Well, the terms of your parole require both those things, so I guess you're stuck." I grinned at her. "You've got counseling tomorrow, right?" She nodded. "Well, maybe you should talk to your counselor about why you're so mad. I don't think it's all your mom's fault."

She sighed. "Why couldn't you guys work things out? Was it because of me?"

I flopped down on the couch next to her. "The fact that your mom and I are not couple material is nothing to do with you. I like your mom. She's a good person. We're just not in love, and that's not your fault."

Lily didn't look at me. "Is it because of _her_?"

I looked heavenwards. "If you don't tell me who you're talking about, how exactly am I supposed to know?"

Now she looked at me. "You know. Your doctor friend. The death chick."

That little aphorism was one I had to thank Lutetia for. "It's nothing to do with Temperance. We've worked together for years. We dated for a few months." A few really good months. "We're still friends. Just like your mom and I are still friends, even though we don't work romantically. Why don't you tell me what's really bothering you."

She sighed, dropping her feet to the floor. "Neither of you trust me. I feel like you're just watching my every move, waiting for me to sneak out to score, or something. I can't go out with friends or anything, without mom breathing down my neck. I hate it."

I wondered if now was the moment for tough love. Possibly not. "We're struggling with trust, kiddo. I think we all need some time to figure out our new boundaries, how we need to deal with each other. A lot has changed this past year. We're not going to figure things out over night." The truth was, we were wary, and we were watching her. What exactly did she expect? Heroin was extremely serious. It wasn't like her mother had caught her smoking a joint in her room, or she got drunk at a party or something. "You know we agreed that you could have friends over occasionally, as long as you keep doors open."

She huffed. "That's not fair. I'm not a kid. I know I screwed up, but you can't keep punishing me for the same thing! I'm doing everything I can to stay sober, I'm working hard. You have to recognize that."

I sighed. "Lily, I know you're doing your best. We both do. But you can't expect us to just trust that you're not going to put yourself into a vulnerable situation. You have to trust us to take care of you right now." I reached out and patted her shoulder, trying not to notice her flinch. "Hey, how do you feel about doing something this weekend, just you and me?"

She looked up at me. "Like what?"

I fished around for a suitable activity. "We could go to the zoo?"

She glared at me. "I'm not a baby."

I guessed that was a no. "Movie?"

"Nothing good's out."

"Bowling?"

She paused. "I could do bowling.

"How's Saturday for you? We can set a time tomorrow, once I know what work's throwing at me."

She shrugged, but a smile, my smile, in fact, curved over her lips. "My weekend's pretty free. I think I can make something work."

"Great. I can impress you with my amazing bowling skills." And Lutetia would get a much needed break. At that thought, the woman in question walked back in, bearing pizza and two six packs. I nodded to her. "Hey, what did you get?"

"Half sausage, half veggies and extra cheese. Let's eat while it's hot."

Even the short break seemed to have given the two women some much needed space. They weren't really speaking to each other, but they weren't glaring either. Progress. At least Lily was actually eating. She was looking a lot better these past weeks, between gaining a few much needed pounds and looking more cocoa than yellow.

We all had a beer with our meal, which I'd been assured was perfectly healthy for a recovering addict. She'd never had an alcohol problem, and the odd beer was fine, since restricting everything could just cause them to spiral back into their actual addiction. So, beer was fine, apparently. Lutetia and I had figured that the odd one with dinner would make her feel like we were, in fact, trusting her to behave like an adult, even if we had a long way to go for that.

When Lily spoke directly to Lutetia, I smiled. "Dad wants to take me bowling on Saturday. That's cool, right?"

Lutetia glanced to me, then her daughter. She shrugged. "Sounds good. Thanks for checking with me." That was directed to Lily, not me, and wasn't sarcastic. Maybe they could act like adults tonight. I reached for another slice.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** So somebody actually read this! I'm very excited. Hope you like it, and I've got a big chunk of it written, so if you do like it, let me know and I'll put things up more quickly. I like being very far ahead of posting,since I can go back and fix details, etc, but if you want more, let me know and I'll see what I can do!

* * *

Friday morning saw me making very good friends with my telephone. Bandau had tracked down the plates from the Hemmingford scooter. The info was waiting in my email. The owner was Morgan Shelby, living in Plattsburg, New York. I tried his home number, got the machine, left a message. Hopefully he'd get back to me soon. If not, I need to track down a work number.

Next order of business was checking in with Bandau. The boy scout had been busy. "Good morning Agent Ryan." We exchanged pleasantries.

I got down to brass tacks. "Did you find out anything further on your end?"

He hummed a 'oui'. "I went to a few of the local watering holes last night, flashed a photo of the deceased. Three different people identified recognized him. One identified him as Jean Laurier."

I nodded to myself. The name made sense with the ID. "Did you get an address?"

"My guy says Laurier has been living in Hemmingford for as long as he could remember. He was thirty-five, so I figure that means at least twenty-five years." A reasonable assumption. I didn't comment. "He said Laurier worked as a handy man, odd jobs, that kind of thing. I can't find any paper trail, we have an address. I can file the warrant request, if you'd like."

I rolled my eyes. "No, I'll handle it. Just fax me the address info and I'll do the paperwork."God only knew what the kid would try to pull if I left him to it. "Anything further?" When he said no, we disconnected.

It took me ten minutes to fill out the familiar forms and fax them over to the courts. Hopefully, I'd have paper in hand by the close of business and could go see what Lowery/Laurier was keeping at his place. The biggest irritation was that I'd have to deal with agent feckless yet again.

Once the paperwork was through and I'd called the clerk who thought I was cute to make sure it had arrived, I decided to call down to Dixie. Maybe someone down there had known this guy before he was apparently killed in Vietnam and could shed some light on the situation with the ID. If Tempe was better at smoothing the way with, well, anyone, I'd have had her call the local sheriff. They weren't too fond of outsiders, if I remembered things accurately. Since she could get a jelly fish to put his back up, I was going to have to do things myself.

Someone at JPAC named Dr. Daniel Tandler had kindly sent us a copy of John Lowery's file. He was from Lumberton, North Carolina, so I rang their local sheriff. A woman picked up the phone, her greeting taking several more seconds than it should have due to her drawl. "Good morning, Lumberton PD, how can I help you?"

I turned up the charm. "Good morning ma'am. I've Detective Andrew Ryan, with the Provincial Police in Quebec. I was hoping to speak with the sheriff. Is he available?"

She practically purred into the receiver. I rolled my eyes. "Of course Detective. Let me check for you." Three minutes later, I had Harold Beasley, sheriff of Robeson county on the line.

"John Lowery?" He asked, obviously incredulous. "That was Plato's boy, but he died in 'Nam. It had to have been, heck, '68, '69? What could possibly have come up after all this time?"

I explained the situation briefly, told him what I was after. He was surprisingly helpful. He even passed me off to a deputy who'd been to school with John Lowery, and this guy volunteered to hit up the library at lunch time and fax me a copy of Lowery's yearbook photo.

After the very productive call down south, I was stuck very unproductively talking to various members of the American Armed forces. They were, understandably, confused by the fingerprint match. If John Lowery had died in a Canadian pond, who, exactly, was in Lowery's grave in Lumberton? I expressed my own curiosity about this small detail. They'd send up the information they had on the kid.

I tried Shelby again. This time he picked up. His information wasn't too useful, but at least we had it. Cash had been exchanged with one Jean Laurier, about ten days ago. Purchaser was supposed to file the paperwork. I stretched at my desk and figured I could give Tempe a call. Given the state of the body, she wouldn't be doing the autopsy, but she'd know who was and she probably knew what the status was.

It took her ages to pickup. "What's happening?"

"We're unwrapping Lowery."

"You sound pretty confident that's who it is."

She spent a very solid minute discussing print quality. I tuned her out. "Too early for cause of death?"

She paused before responding. "I'm pretty sure LaManche is thinking autoerotic. The guy rigged himself up to get his rocks off."

"In a pond?" That was just ridiculous. I mean, surely, there were better ways to go about these things.

"Anything's possible if you follow your dream." I could hear her grin.

"Worth sliding down for a peek?" Maybe I could waste some time staring at her ass when she wasn't looking. That was always a fun game.

"Autoerotics usually are."

"In the meantime, I thought you'd want to know. The plate on the moped traced to one Morgan Shelby of Plattsburgh, New York. He and I just finished chatting. Shelby says he sold the scooter to a Hemmingford man named Jean Laurier. The transaction was, shall we say, informal."

"Cash, no paperwork, the bike goes north costing Laurier no cross-border tax."

Right on the nose. "Bingo. According to Shelby, the purchaser promised to deal with registration and licensing in Quebec."

"But didn't."

"The sale took place only ten days ago."

"Jean Laurier. John Lowery."

"Oui, madame."

"What's his story?"

"Bandau did some canvassing, found a few locals who knew the guy. One says Laurier's lived around Hemmingford for as long as he can remember."

"Since nineteen sixty-eight?"

"The gentleman wasn't that specific."

"What did Laurier do?"

"Worked as a handyman, strictly freelance."

"Cash again?"

"Oui, madame. Laurier stayed pretty much off the grid. No voter registration or tax record. No social insurance number. Bandau's informants say the guy was a loner, weird but not threatening."

"Did you get an LSA?"

"Oui, madame. Thought I'd toss the place tomorrow. You game?"

"I'm free."

"It's a date."

"It's not a date, Ryan."

"Then perhaps a little après-toss toss at my place?" I was serious, if she was game.

"I promised Birdie I'd make him deviled eggs." The classic Brennan method of shooting me down with something completely random and ridiculous.

"I also phoned the Lumberton PD." I imitated the very friendly secretary I'd spoken to. "Nice friendly boys down that away."

"Uh-huh." She never appreciated my accents.

"Some Lowerys still live there. Guy I talked with actually remembered John, promised to go to the library and copy the kid's yearbook photo."

"Why were Lowery's prints in the system?"

"Because of some part-time job he held during high school. Nurse's aide? Orderly in a mental facility? Something like that." I would reread the info when they sent up the kids file.

"I'm impressed." She wasn't.

"I'm a detective. I detect. I'll be down when Lowery's face faxes in."

At noon, I hit the cafeteria for a sandwich, bag of chips and can of coke. I ate my food and shot the shit with a few other detectives. When I got back to my desk, there was a fax sitting on my in-tray. The photo was pretty terrible, but it was better than what we currently had, which was nothing. I headed down to the morgue.

When I got there, LaManche was doing his thing, being trailed by Lisa Savard, the tech with ridiculous tits, and one of the photography guys. I handed the fax off to Tempe. She studied the photo for a second, squinting at it, making that cute little furrow between her brows crop up. If we'd been alone, I would have teased her, but Madame Professional would have been offended. Instead I just took the paper back from her.

"Victim shows no signs of external trauma." LaManche looked up, finally noticing I'd entered his domain. He nodded in greeting. "Detective."

"I got a fax from John Lowery's home town. This is a copy of his yearbook photo." I handed LaManche the grainy black and white.

He and Lisa both took a second to look at before he turned to the busty tech. "Clean him, please," LaManche requested.

She washed down the guy's head, then combed the hair like it was in the photo. When she was done, the photo was placed next to his head. The four of us all looked back and forth between the body and the old picture.

The basic features were the same. It was hard to tell, really. I mean, how does a face change over the course of forty years, let alone spending a day or two submerged in a pond? But, yeah, it could have been the same guy. Nothing to rule it out, for certain.

Tempe had her doubts, apparently. "Think it's him?" she asked LaManche.

I was busy staring at the sight on the table in front of me. After I'd studied the guy's face, I widened my scrutiny and I had to say, Tempe had been right. Autoerotics were probably worth a peek, if this guy was any example. The guy was wearing a pink bra and panties and a freaking nurse's hat. _Tabernac_. I just didn't get it. I mean, sure a bit of kink could be fun. A soft smack on a willing bum at the right moment could be fun for all involved, and at least I could see some kind of appeal in the really weird ones when there were at least two people involved. I mean, sex was fun. But masturbation? It got the job done when you were forced to fly solo. A last resort. This was so freaking… ridiculous. And the one motorcycle boot really did not go with his outfit. I didn't ask what was in the bag around his neck. I had a feeling I really didn't want to know.


	4. Chapter 4

The bulk of my Friday afternoon was spent going through the rest of the evidence from the scene. And finding out exactly what a proctoscope was for. I was right, I didn't want to know. After work, I went for a few beers with some of the guys from my hockey league. I made arrangements to pick up Lily Saturday night around 7:30. Lutetia complained to me about our daughter's attitude. I listened, said we'd figure things out. I hoped I wasn't lying.

Saturday morning, bright and early, I got a call from LaManche, letting me know the official findings of his autopsy. He was calling it as autoerotic asphyxia. He didn't sound surprised. He was passing his findings on to the coroner, who would handle the notification of next of kin. I was glad to not be making that phone call. The whole thing weirded me out. The guy had been pretty drunk, well over the legal limit, which I guess was why this trip in his baggie had ended so badly for him.

Once I finished with LaManche, I got myself some breakfast, then called Tempe. She claimed she was ready when I was, so I swung by to pick her up and we got on the road for Hemmingford. I was feeling pretty good. Spring had well and truly arrived and I wasn't feeling so hard up for a cigarette today. I even brought a coffee for Doctor Cranky.

Once she'd had some time to metabolize the caffeine, she seemed to finally want to talk. She didn't mention any possibility of after-search nookie. Maybe she could be convinced. "So," she asked, "how long did Laurier/Lowery live at the place we're heading for, anyway?"

I opened my window and leaned my arm on the edge. "A long time." I caught her arched eyebrow, then dove into the explanation as I understood it. "It's a bit complicated. Basically, we think he lived there since the early '70's." I went into the details we had, about various landlords and rental agreements that hadn't been as strict as the Canadian government would have liked. "When the last owner died, with no heirs, Lowery just started paying the taxes and bills in the dead guy's name. That was eight years ago."

I ignored her raised eyebrow and just enjoyed the warm air washing over my face. "Nobody noticed?" She sounded incredulous.

I shrugged. "They were getting their money. Nobody asked too many questions." She rolled her eyes. I changed the subject. "So Lowery got his kink on bundling in plastic, going deep, and beating off in a pond." I knew my distaste was coming though, but I couldn't help it. Maybe this particular bit of kink bothered me because, lately, my sexual escapades were strictly a solo affair. And the person I wanted to engage in a double act was more interested in making deviled eggs for her cat.

She grinned at me. "Dressed as a nurse."

I shook my head. Maybe I'd just never get the appeal of this. I certainly hoped not. "Apparently he changed in the canoe. The duffel contained jeans, socks, sneakers, and a shirt."

"Must take good balancing skills."

I didn't laugh, which took effort. "It also contained a flashlight."

"Suggesting he went to the pond at night."

"Wouldn't you?" I shook my head. I wouldn't want anyone seeing me in that situation. "I don't get it. What's the kick?"

"Most autoerotic activity takes place in the home," she announced.

I practically snorted. "Gee. Why would that be?" Maybe because that way no one saw you wrapped in a plastic bag, dressed as a freaking nurse.

"Death is usually due to the failure of a preestablished escape mechanism." Christ. I bet she'd read some scholarly paper on the subject or something.

I shook my head. "Lowery probably lost his snorkel, then panicked and dropped the knife he was using to cut himself free."

"That's LaManche's take. And it's plausible. Most autoerotic deaths are accidental. The person chokes or smothers, due to hanging, or the use of a ligature or plastic bag. Also in the mix are electrocution, foreign-body insertion, overdressing, or body wrapping."

"Body wrapping?" I probably didn't want to know, but I couldn't help but ask.

"A plastic bag over the head is fairly common, body wrapping less so. Last night I read about a sixty-year-old man found rolled in fourteen sewn blankets, his penis wrapped in a plastic bag. A forty-six-year-old man was discovered wearing seven pairs of stockings, a dress, and ladies' undies cut to allow Mr. Happy a front-row seat. A twenty-three-year-old schoolteacher died sporting a plastic mackintosh, three cotton skirts, a raincoat, and a plastic—"

She had seriously spent her evening researching this crap? I interrupted her before she could get through her dissertation. "I get the picture. But what's the point?"

"Heightened sexual excitement."

I caught her green eyes with my blue ones. "I can think of better routes to that end."

I saw her swallow, caught the blush that instantly stained her cheeks. _Oh yeah, I've still got it._ And I could certainly think of better ways for Dr. Temperance Brennan, and myself, to achieve heightened sexual excitement.

She retreated back to facts to cover the fact that I'd made her flustered. "Autoerotic arousal derives from a limited number of mechanisms." She ticked off each point with a finger. "One, direct stimulation of the erotic regions. Two, stimulation of the sexual centers of the central nervous system."

"As in strangulation or hanging," I clarified, just to make sure I was following her.

"Or the use of a head covering. It's well known that cerebral hypoxia can heighten sexual pleasure." I didn't care how well known it was, it was still weird. I didn't interrupt. "Three, creation of fear and distress in the context of a masochistic fantasy. Spice things up with electrocution or immersion, for example."

"Weenie-whacking submerged can't be all that common."

"There's actually a term for it. Aqua-eroticum. I found a few cases reported in the literature. One victim used an ankle rock, just like Lowery."

She had to be making this shit up. No way there was a scholarly paper on jacking off underwater. No way. I turned onto Highway 219. We passed the pond, and a few minutes later pulled to the shoulder beside a mailbox with the number 572 hand-painted on one side. Agent pain in the ass was apparently already on scene, if his cruiser was any hint.

Grand. We spent a few seconds studying the house. It was a small single storey bungalow set back from road. It was partially hidden by a small stand of pine. A small shed was situated to the right. I didn't see anything to start alarm bells ringing in my brain, so I gestured to Brennan and we hopped out of my jeep. The property looked pretty neat. The paint was fresh and the back garden had been plowed recently enough that it hadn't been covered with new growth yet. The wood pile had been refreshed since winter.

I saw a flash of movement in a front window and my blood boiled. Glancing at Brennan, I saw that she'd noticed it too. "Bandau better not be pulling more of his Lone Ranger bullshit." This kid was really starting to piss me off.

The outer door stood open, its frame gouged and splintered at the level of the knob. Great, just great. Dudley freaking Do-Right had taken it upon himself to break into the house ahead of the paper saying such an action was actually legal. He was really pissing me off. Brennan followed me inside, where we found Bandau dicking around. The sound of our footsteps made him turn to face us.

"Not jumping the gun again, are we, Agent?" I smiled, not a hint of humor in it.

"No, sir."

"You entered ahead of the warrant."

"Just securing the scene."

What exactly was he securing it from? Aliens? Ghosts? "Let's hope that's true." He didn't respond, and I decided to just ignore him.

Tempe and I began the familiar song and dance. I, at least, wasn't looking for anything in particular. We had no reason to suspect foul-play, and the only reason to still be investigating was the confusion over the ID. Had the ID been straight forward, I would have happily dumped the whole mess into the lap of the useless Bandau.

The contents of the house were pretty typical of an older guy who lived on his own and had never had a wife. It was neater than I expected, and there was a huge amount of home canned foods, but everything else was pretty typical. Battered dishes, furniture that was old or second hand or both. The fridge held basics. Milk, sandwich stuff.

There were a few dishes in the drying rack, a half empty bottle of scotch. The bathroom was clean and tidy, as was the bedroom. The tiny closet held unremarkable clothes. The closet floor held two pairs of boots, a pair of dress shoes and a pair of sandals, along with the missing motorcycle boot. I thought that was a bit odd. So the one boot really was part of his planned outfit. This guy had really been weird.

The shelf above the cloths rail contained the guy's porn collection. "Hell-o."

We read the titles. Tit Man. Butt Man. "The guy's flexible," Brennan remarked.

I picked one up, Lollypop Girls. The lead story was headlined Park It in My Panties. Tempe looked at me before I could come up with a suitable remark, about what exactly I'd like to park in her panties. She cut off my thought. "Decorum, sir."

"Hither we yonder to fair computer?" I grinned at her.

"Hither is not a verb."

"Let us forth, flaxen-haired maiden." Sure, she wasn't very blonde, but I was doing my best. She rolled her eyes at me dramatically and I bent slightly at the waist in a mock bow. "I yield to my lady's superior skills."

"Thank you."

I leaned in to softly get the last word. "And to her unclean undies." The things I could do to get said undies unclean… She smacked my arm, knocking me out of my musing.

I retreated back to the living room and she followed me. Bandau was still standing around, doing nothing as far as I could tell. What exactly had been the point of breaking in ahead of the warrant to just stand around?

Tempe started fishing around the desk. "No phone," she noted. "No cables. Did Laurier have an ISP account?"

What was she going on about now? "Meaning?"

"Internet Service Provider. Like Videotron or Bell."

Oh, internet. "Not that I found record of." It hadn't been any of the bills being paid in the deceased owner's name.

She switched on the computer, and I guessed she was having a go with common passwords. After a few minutes, something apparently worked. I waited while she finished booting the machine up. After a minute or two of clicking, she pointed at something. I leaned in to see what she was indicating. "He pirated signal from the neighbors."

"Can he do that?"

"The Fifes probably use their phone number as their password. A lot of folks do. Laurier knew or looked it up. Or maybe he asked permission. Anyway, once the password is entered, the computer remembers and automatically selects that network. The Fifes can't be far away. The signal's weak but sufficient."

I jotted down 'Fife' in my notebook. I'd get in touch with them on Monday. Tempe, meanwhile, kept poking around on the dead guy's computer. "He didn't use e-mail," she said. "Or iTunes, iPhoto, iMovie, iDVD."

"I see." Emphasis on the 'I'.

Another eye roll. "Let's check what he found amusing on the net."

She pulled up the guy's browsing history and announced, "A site called robesoniandotcom was visited six times." I leaned in to have a read. Her hair smelled good, like some kind of flowers, mixed with that perfume of hers I loved, mixed with just her. I resisted the urge to bury my face in it. I focused back on the actual job.

Tempe pulled up , which was an online newspaper for Lumberton, the county seat of Robeson County, North Carolina. "Hot damn," I murmured in her ear. She shivered, ever so slightly.

She reopened the history, and we both went back to skimming it. From what he looked at, it looked like he really was a draft dodger from the late '60's. That cemented the whole thing for me. I straightened up. "That nails it. Lowery left Lumberton for Canada to avoid service in Vietnam. He's been living the straight life as Jean Laurier ever since."

"Straight except for one quirk." She pointed to a couple addresses I hadn't read yet. Love Yourself and Tell. Hard Soloing. Ramrod's Self-Bondage Page. "Pick one," she said.

I shook my head, then pointed to one at random. Ramrod's blog featured two stories.

A Baptist minister was found dead, alone in his Arkansas home, wearing a wet suit, face mask, diving gloves, and slippers. Underneath the outerwear were a second rubberized suit with suspenders, rubberized male underwear, and bondage gear constructed of nylon and leather. The reverend's anus featured a condom-covered dildo.

A Kansas plumber hanged himself from a showerhead with his wife's leather belt. The gentleman survived to tell the tale. In vivid detail. Wonderful.

Ramrod's home page had a colorful sidebar encouraging visitors into his chat room. We opted to not.

Tempe shut down the computer and started rummaging around in the desk. I left her to it, opting instead to have a further poke through the living room. I didn't find anything telling. There was the typical loose change under the couch cushions, knick knacks in cabinets.

I stopped when Tempe called me over. "Check this out."

She handed me an old black and white photo. It looked very much like the kid from the high school yearbook fax. "Looks like Lowery," I said.

"The name Spider is written on the back."

I flipped it, read the inscription, nodded and handed it back to her. That was enough for me. I knew this was our guy. Jean Laurier was John Lowery. Now it was up to the guys in the US to figure out who exactly it was they'd buried in Lowery's grave. "We're done here," I announced.

"Take these?" She indicated the computer and the photo.

I glanced to Agent Useless. I'd wanted to make him panic a bit about the busted door, make him think we'd gotten permission only to inspect the interior, but it would be a hassle. I could always write him up over it, if he pissed me off again. I nodded to Tempe. "The warrant covers it."

She nodded and hopped under the desk to start unplugging things. I stood back and admired the view. I thought about my favorite panties on her, that tiny thong I loved so much. I glanced over at Bandau, who also had taken far too keen an interest in the good doctor's rear, especially for someone who couldn't be bothered to take more of an interest in the search than staring out the window a second before. I glared at him before making a decision. Oh yeah, I was totally writing him up.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Two chapters in one day! Hope you enjoy.

* * *

The ride back to Montreal was actually pretty enjoyable. We talked about work, and the weather. When we got close to her condo, I queried her lunch plans. She had none. Did I want to grab something? I did. I parked by hers and we walked to Hurley's Irish Pub for lunch. We even got dessert, though, typically, she just had a bite of mine and got hers to go. We walked back to hers, enjoying the afternoon sunshine and balmy temperatures.

She invited me in for coffee.

I said yes.

Much to my surprise, she actually put on coffee. Because it would significantly lower my chances of getting in her pants, I didn't comment on the fact that she could make coffee. I'd save that line for another time.

When the coffee was on, I pulled her in for a hug, rubbing one hand on her lower back. She tensed. I waited. She didn't relax. With a sigh, I let her go. I guess coffee could occasionally actually mean coffee.

She whirled away from me, blinking a little too frequently. I really hoped I didn't make her cry. Thankfully, she just changed the subject. "So, Katy's apparently dating a guy named 'Smooth'. I really didn't know that was a name, but according to her it is and I'm obviously not cool enough to be aware. Do you know anyone named Smooth?"

I laughed. Hopefully she'd forgive me at some point in the not too distant future. I really missed those panties. "Nope. I can safely say I don't know anyone named Smooth." I reached down and picked up Birdie who was threading himself around my ankles. As soon as I started stroking his ears, he began purring. "Your neighbor still giving you issues about the Birdmeister?"

"Sparky is a complete tool. Bird and I are ignoring him. Maybe he'll give himself an aneurism." We both sat at the kitchen table and she poured coffee. I offered some of her cheese cake to Bird, who purred even more loudly as he licked my finger. She shook her head and rolled her eyes before handing me a mug. "You know," She noted, leaning against a counter and blowing on her coffee, "I had planned on eating that myself."

I grinned. "Birdie is so much more appreciative than you are, though."

Another eye roll from the doc. She headed to the living/dining room and I followed her, flopping down on the couch with the cat. She took the wing back. Ouch. Maybe she didn't like my cologne. "So what else do you know about this 'Smooth' character?"

She did her one shoulder shrug. "Not much. He's thirty-two, a drummer. I'm hoping it's a passing fad. Katy's not been that happy lately. She hates her job, it's the most boring thing in the universe, blah, blah, blah. She seems to think that a job should be day after day of ceaseless excitement. Apparently there's something wrong with just doing the work, getting the pay check and enjoying her free time. I don't get it."

I smiled. "Maybe she sees all the stuff you get up to."

She rolled her eyes. "Most of my day to day is routine. I'm sure it's the same for you. And I worked really hard to get here. She doesn't remember that part. She doesn't see me slogging through the boring details day after day. I don't know what to tell her."

I shrugged. "She'll figure things out eventually."

She sighed. "I know." She changed the subject. "How's Charlie been?"

I scratched the cat under the chin. "I think he's missing this guy. You're going to be here a while this trip, right?" She nodded. "I can bring him by tomorrow if you'd like."

"Sure. Have you been using the training CDs?"

"But of course, Madame," I lied. I hated those freaking CDs. "He's been behaving himself very well, I assure you." That was less of a lie.

Conversation meandered for a while before Tempe tentatively asked about Lily. "She's good, I think. Better, anyway. She and her mom might kill each other, so that's fun. I'm taking Lily bowling tonight. They both need a break from each other." I went on, at length, about Lily getting through rehab, feeling like we needed to watch her every move, her resentment of us for doing so. Tempe just listened, her green eyes focused on me. It felt good to talk about everything, my worries, my hopes.

I left at seven to grab my daughter. I arrived to find her and her mother silently seething. Fun times. I pulled Lutetia into the kitchen. "What's going on?"

"She's impossible. She's pissed at me for not letting her go off wandering the mall with some friends I don't even know. I'm hanging by a thread here, Andy. I swear to god, one of us is going to snap."

I rubbed my temples with one hand. "Do you think a break would do the two of you any good?"

Lutetia sighed. "She needs stability, Andy. I don't know if it's a good idea, really."

"Well, the two of you killing each other doesn't seem like a grand plan either, Lutetia."

"What exactly are you suggesting?"

"She packs a bag. We go bowling tonight and spend tomorrow together. I'll bring her here Monday morning on my way to work. You both get a much needed break, and there's enough time for Lily to start hating my controlling attitude instead of yours."

Lutetia nodded. "That actually sounds really good. You go talk to her. I just can't right now."

I sighed, but did as she asked. With surprisingly low levels of pain, Lily got her things packed and we were off.

Bowling was really good. I managed to get Lily laughing and we had a surprisingly fun night. She seemed calm and relaxed, something I hadn't seen in a long time. When we got back to my place, she talked at Charlie for a while, laughing when he swore at her. I sighed to myself. So much for the training CDs. Tempe would live.

The next morning we grabbed breakfast, talked about trust issues. We both agreed it would take time, that we'd work on things. As a gesture I left her home, alone, when I ran Charlie to Tempe's. As a result, I declined Tempe's offer of coffee and missed out on what looked like the tail end of her Sunday paper ritual. I even broke a few traffic laws getting home. When I did stroll in, looking as nonchalant as I could, she rolled her eyes at me. "Geez! I'm fine! What, you think I'm going to sneak out and score as soon as you turn your back?"

Possibly. "Of course not, Lily. I'm sorry if you feel like I'm watching your every move, but you have to cut me, and your mother, some slack. We're all in unfamiliar territory here." I sighed. "You're doing great with your recovery." _This time_. I didn't say it. "What do you feel you deserve, in terms of trust?"

She sighed. "I don't know. I know you guys worry about me, I do. But I'm working really hard. I went through rehab, I'm following the terms of my probation. I know I've screwed up in the past, but I really feel like that's all behind me. I just, I want to get on with my life, you know?"

I did, I thought. I'd been through it before, even the nearly getting myself killed part, but I'd done it in a fight rather than with drugs. I knew all about starting over. "Well, can you think of anything you'd like to do?"

She was doing community service at the moment, as part of the terms of her probation, two days a week, but she hadn't gone back to working since getting out of rehab. She sighed. "I don't know. I guess I need to figure out working. It just seems like you need a degree to do anything."

I shrugged. "You're still young, Lily. It's okay to not have your career mapped out for the next forty years. And you still have time, if you want to get a degree. You could even do part time, work a bit, while you figure out what you really want to study."

She looked up at me. "You guys would help me, if I wanted to do that?"

I nodded, and the hope in her eyes was almost painful. It was moments like this that I really hated Lutetia for not letting me know I had a daughter until the kid was grown. It was hard to tell exactly what I would have wanted, had she told me she was pregnant, but this whole situation really sucked, and I feel like it could have been better had we all known the full story from the start. Maybe I was wrong, but that's how I felt. "Yeah, Lily, we'll help." I threw her the remote. "Let's veg out for a while, yeah?" She smiled at me and flicked the TV on.

A few hours later, my phone rang. I smiled when I looked at the screen. Tempe. Lily was in her room napping or listening to her iPod or something, so I had the kitchen to myself as I made dinner. I clicked the phone on. "Hey, buttercup. Miss me already?"

"Knock it off, Ryan."

Okay, somebody wasn't in a playful mood. "What's up?"

She sounded really irritated. "I'm sorry to do this to you, but I'm going to need to bring Charlie back."

I was surprised. "Is he being particularly bawdy?"

She laughed slightly. "Well, yes, but that's beside the point. I have to go to North Carolina."

"Is everything okay?" She normally stayed in Montreal through until early, or even mid, summer.

She sighed. "Apparently John Lowery's father wasn't pleased with the news Hubert imparted to him." I wasn't too surprised, one of the reasons I'd been happy the job of notification in an accidental death fell to the coroner rather than the investigating officer. "He got in touch with his congressman, who started raising a stink. Apparently the guy was a fraternity brother of Brent Notter, the head of PR at JPAC, and Notter is complaining. Loudly. My friends at JPAC kindly thought of me, since I'm from North Carolina and I've worked with them before." I could guess where this is going. "So, tomorrow, I'm catching the evening flight down to Dixie. I'll be doing the exhumation bright and early Tuesday morning."

I smiled slightly. "You've always been a soft touch."

She snorted. "A friend of mine at JPAC reminded me that these were not bad people to have owing you a favor. He's right, damn him."

"Do you want me to pick up Charlie?"

She sighed. "No, you just ran him over. I can come to you."

"Lily's here if you want to have dinner with us."

"I should pack."

She could pack for the trip in five minutes. I'd seen her do it. "You have to eat. I'm making beef stew. My kitchen smells delicious." It did.

She hesitated. "You sure I wouldn't be imposing?"

"I wouldn't have offered if you were."

"Can I bring anything?"

At six on a Sunday? "Another baguette would be welcome if you have one. Otherwise, we're fine."

"Not a problem. See you in half an hour?"

"Sure." I had a thought. "You taking Bird? I can watch him if you need me to."

"Nope. The fur ball will be taking to the skies with me, much to his dismay. See you in thirty." She clicked off.

I popped my phone down on the counter and took a long pull at my beer. If she was taking the cat, I guessed she'd be in Charlotte for a few days at least. There were probably a couple cases waiting for her or something. Or maybe she didn't feel she could ask me to watch her cat.

I went to Lily's door and tapped, opened it when she said to. "Hey Lily. Tempe's coming over for dinner. Something came up and she needs to head back to the states, so she has to bring Charlie back."

Lily gave me a skeptical look. "I really don't get the whole thing with you guys sharing the bird."

I shrugged. "Charlie can't handle her commute, so he bunks with me a lot. It's not that complicated."

She rolled her eyes. "Right."

"Come help me set the table."

Dinner was uneventful. Lily was polite, but distant. Tempe and I kept conversation light. Lily didn't say much.

After dinner, I enquired about Tempe's plans for her trip. She hoped to be back by the following weekend. I gave her a hug, told her to stay safe. She rolled her eyes but hugged me back. I smiled. Progress.


End file.
